Just Like Da
by darthsydious
Summary: What if Sherlock and Molly had a child born with a disability? Series of one-shots. Plots will be mostly on the family, but there will be some John/Mary hinted at later on, and Mycroft will make appearances as well.
1. Just Like Him

_This will be a series of one-shots, as I honestly don't know how else to proceed with it. It was just a plotbunny that wouldn't leave me alone, and I don't have any idea how to go about writing it other than vignettes. If I get something wrong, please let me know. Nicholas is born with Schwartz-Jampel Syndrome, which is very, very rare. _

* * *

"He just wants to be like you," Molly said softly.

"Well he _can't_, Molly." Sherlock looked at his wife steadily, the hurt just as much in his eyes as it was in hers. The room was still. They could hear down the hall Nicholas snoring softly. "We cannot keep fooling ourselves into thinking he will ever have a normal life, or that any of this will change. It isn't fair to him or us." Blinking back tears, she fell against him, and with a heaving sob, she began to weep. He brought his arms about her, soothing circles onto her back. "Physio will help, as will a walking stand for around the house. We'll get a wheel chair for trips to the shops and when he has to go to school. There is no reason why he won't be able to manage perfectly well."

"He hates people staring at him," she said quietly. "He hates going out."

"I know."

"He's just like you. Exactly like you. He's got to have a reason." His hold on her tightened, squeezing just a moment, before resting his head against her's with a sigh.

"I know."


	2. Sayyida

_Mycroft pulls some strings for Nicholas to meet a working dog. _

* * *

She was a beautiful Irish Setter, her fur was a rich red-brown shade that seemed to shimmer when she walked. The dog trotted directly to Nicholas, put her head in his lap and wagged her tail. Surprised, Nicholas didn't know what to do. Sherlock and Molly stood back, waiting to see what his reaction would be. He'd seen dogs before; he once went with his mother to the animal shelter to look at the cats after Toby died. This dog was quiet and well behaved. Molly and Sherlock watched their son's eyes light up, and he stroked the dog's silky fur.

"Is she for me, Uncle Mycroft?" he asked, quite shyly. The dog wore a vest that said "WORKING DOG" printed in big bold letters. His uncle, standing opposite, near the animal trainer was leaning against him umbrella.

"If you like her, Nicholas," Mycroft answered. Nicholas looked at his parents, pure hope in his eyes.

"It's alright with us," Molly said. "Your father and I talked about it already."

"Then I want to keep her," the Setter stretched her nose out, trying to lick his face. Stroking her silky fur, Nicholas smiled. "Now I have someone to tell all my secrets to," Molly was certain it was the first time Sherlock had ever thanked Mycroft and truly meant it.

"What are you going to name her?" Sherlock asked as Molly flagged down a cab.

"Sayyida," Nicholas answered proudly. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow.

"After the Moroccan pirate?" Nicholas only smiled.

"Cab's waiting," Molly called, waving them over. Sherlock only smiled, feeling a sense of pride in his son's choice of name for the new dog.


	3. Physio

_Not much is known about the treatment of Schwartz-Jampel Syndrome (SJS) other than it can be treated by surgery, medications, and physical therapy. I think Molly and Sherlock would both put physical therapy and surgery first, before resorting to medication._

* * *

"Push, push, push, push-" Nicholas grunted, pushing his hands against his father's. "Good, there, there, slow, slow, stretch your arms…good, very good,"

Physio was always difficult. It sometimes seemed to escalate the pain Nicholas was in. He never once hated it though, because even though every muscle cramped, his limbs aching and sore, his father was there, encouraging him. His da had been there since the very first day, helping him through the exercises, encouraging him patiently.

The best days were water therapy, and it was probably the only time Sherlock Holmes ever willingly donned swim trunks. The first day, he was nothing less than paranoid for his son's safety. Nicholas was perfectly safe of course, wearing a life-vest and goggles, holding onto a kick-board, besides which the physio therapist was a trained professional; Mycroft had screened them all before the sessions even started. Still, it didn't keep him from worrying.

"I've got you," he said, keeping his voice steady.

"I know Da," Nicholas said calmly, he floated on his back, his father supporting him. He looked up, eyes twinkling. "You've always got me."


	4. Deductions

_Like father, like son. _

* * *

"Come on, please?"

"Your mum says we're not to do it in public," Sherlock glanced around the large room.

"Mum's gone to the counter, please? She'll be ages over there!" Sherlock was fighting back a smile, glancing from Molly, who was looking at the line, her watch, and the bank tellers, all occupied.

"Pick one," he said, hitching at the knees of his trousers, he knelt down so he was eye-level with his son. Nicholas leaned back in his wheel-chair, tapping his chin. Sayyida was beside him, panting in the warm sun.

"The man with the funny hair," he said. Sherlock looked at the subject Nicholas was studying.

"Mid-forties, comes from Wales, born into money but recently lost a good deal of it judging by the way he's studying his bank ledger-"

"He's not got a ring on," Nicholas said. Sherlock looked from the man across the bank to his son, surprised.  
"What do you make of that?"

"There's a line on his little finger," Nicholas continued. "Where he would be wearing it."

"Perhaps he forgot it today," his father prompted.

"He doesn't look like anyone to forget something, he looks like Uncle Mycroft…only shorter, and tan. But definitely methodical."  
"Mm, so he visits tanning beds, no Englishman over forty visits tanning beds unless they've got a young lady for a wife, or wants one,"

"Divorced?"

"Or married and hiding it," Sherlock nodded.

"For his young lady friend."

"Speaking of-" they watched as a chavvy bottle-blond woman in a tight dress scampered across the bank, giggling and the man held out his arms, kissing her.

"She's from the North," Nicholas wrinkled his nose.

"Don't be snobby," Sherlock warned. "But yes, she is."

"What have I told you two about deducing people?" Molly asked and they both jumped. Sayyida stood up, ears perked and alert.

"Deducing, people watching, really, isn't it all the same thing?" Sherlock asked.

"Not to you two," Molly said, taking the handles of Nicholas chair and turning them around again. Father and son exchanged smiles, not really caring if they'd been caught or not.


	5. Water Therapy

_This idea comes from **Ballykissangel**__so snaps for her *snapsnapsnapsnapsnapsnap* and her awesomeness. Plus I love the idea of Mycroft awkwardly filling in for Sherlock, and coming away happy that he did._

* * *

"I don't…" Mycroft chewed his bottom lip. Molly was almost laughing at him. For the first time in his life, Mycroft looked very, very conflicted. "Why can't _you_ go?"

"It's something for the boys." Was all she would tell him.

"What about John?" Mycroft tried.

"He's with Sherlock, or I'd ask him," Molly said with a quirk of an eyebrow.

"Remind me to thank you that I am in fact last on the list."

"For his water therapy, yes," Molly said with a laugh, but sobered quickly. "Please, Mycroft. I won't tell anyone," she was quiet for a moment, then took a breath, playing her last card. "He asked for you."

That did it. Sod it all and his sentiment. He hated sentiment. But seeing Nicholas' face light up when his mother told him Uncle Mycroft would accompany him to his water therapy made it worth it. Marginally.

Mycroft stood, extremely self-conscious, in swim trunks. In a pool.

"What…um…what do I do?" he asked softly.

"Da helps me float," Nicholas said.

"You're floating now," indeed his nephew bobbed up and down in the water, thanks to the life-vest.

"On my back," he said. The physio therapist was in the water as well,

"Mr. Holmes turns Nicholas on his back, easy does it," she showed Mycroft how to support Nicholas back and neck. "And Nicholas works his legs and arms,"

"What does this accomplish?"

"Water offers stronger resistance, at a gentler pace," Nicholas answered. "And I like swimming." The therapist stepped back, climbing up onto the pool steps. This was apparently normal procedure. Mycroft understood why Sherlock and Nicholas bonded so well. They had to trust each other in this regard, Nicholas had to trust his father not to let him go, and Sherlock in turn, had to trust that his son would not panic and flail, drowning them both. But the boy was quite calmly paddling in the water. Sayyida was panting at the edge of the pool, keeping watch.

For an hour and twenty minutes Mycroft towed his nephew around the pool, almost smiling. Despite the fact that he had to wear swim trunks, that he had to actually _get in the pool_…it wasn't so bad. Nicholas spoke freely during his therapy, and Mycroft was quite pleased to learn how much he reminded him of Sherlock.

"How was it?" Molly asked, patting Nicholas as he passed her in his walking stand, heading to the couch. He pulled himself up, Sayyida climbing up so he could lean against her. DS pulled from pocket, he settled in to relax. Mycroft's hair was still damp, combed back against his head. He set the tip of his umbrella on the floor, mouth twitching.

"It went..._well_."

"Just 'well'?" Molly asked teasingly. "Not 'dreadful' or 'horrendous'?"

"Honestly, Molly, it isn't as if I've never gone swimming before."

"Water therapy is different."

"Yes," Mycroft replied, looking at his nephew giggling at the screen of his game. "It is."


	6. Friends

_Yay! Ella Watson! _

* * *

"How come you tell her your secrets, but you won't tell me?" Nicholas looked up at Ella Watson sitting on the sofa, open book on her lap. She was only a year older than him, and could be quite bossy. Nicholas wasn't sure he liked to be bossed by a girl.

"Because she's my best friend," he replied.

"I thought we were friends," Ella frowned. Nicholas paused, considering his relationship with Ella Watson up to that point. He'd known her for as long as he'd known anyone in his life. She'd always been there, same as Uncle Watson and Aunt Mary and Uncle Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson. She often came down to 221b, even before he'd gotten Sayyida. He wasn't sure how he'd felt, this funny girl coming into his mother and father's flat all the time, singing odd songs and bouncing from one activity to the next. Ella had boundless energy it seemed. He wasn't exactly talkative with her; he just sort of…watched her and let her do the talking. She didn't seem to mind.

"Are we?" he finally asked. Ella looked hurt, and suddenly he felt bad. "It's just…I thought your mum made you come down here," he said.

"No of course not!" That seemed to make things worse.

"If it makes you feel better, I only tell Sayyida secrets because I know she can't tell anyone."

"I wouldn't!"

"You would too," Nicholas contradicted. "It's human nature. People like secrets, and they like to share them."

"I wouldn't," Ella repeated. She put her book aside and knelt down, the service dog between them. Nicholas studied her carefully. He was only seven, but he knew very well the signs of someone lying or if they were speaking the truth. Ella Watson never told lies; she'd been raised too well. _Sentimental and over-achiever, wants everyone to like her, people-pleaser, definite extrovert._ These all read across her face, the words he always thought of when he saw her, but another cropped into his thoughts as he looked at her. _Friend. _

How curious.

"You can pet Sayyida, if you want to," he said finally. Ella's eyes widened slightly. Her father and mother had given her strict instruction to never, ever, ever pet Sayyida because she was a service dog, and service dogs were there to protect their owner, to look after them, not to be cosseted by every little girl and boy that wanted to pet and play with them. "Go ahead," Nicholas said. "It's alright, if I say so."

Molly appeared in the doorway, shrugging into her coat.

"Ella, your mother called, she's on her way home now. Nicholas, if you still want to go to the park, you'd better start getting ready." Both children looked at eachother, then Molly.

"Can Ella come with us to the park?" His mother looked surprised, but she smiled.

"If you both want to," she said, Nicholas could see she was trying hard not to show her excitement. He couldn't blame her. He never asked anyone to join them on their outings. He couldn't see why anyone would want to come. "I'll call Mary, and see if she wants to meet us in Regents." She disappeared again around the corner to call.

"Are you sure?" Ella asked, once they were alone again.  
"Friends go out together, right?" he wheeled himself over to the skeleton that acted as a hat and coat rack.

"I'll get it," Ella ran over, tugging down his jacket and helping him into it.

As they set off together, Nicholas contemplated what it meant to be and have a friend. Sayyida trotted between them, and Nicholas told her it was alright if she wanted to hold the strap on the service jacket. Ella politely declined, and Nicholas was impressed. He actually smiled at her then.


	7. Brave Boys Need Friends Too

_None of these are in order by timeline, by the way, which is how I like it. I write them as they come to me. _

* * *

"Oh no," Molly sighed angrily. Mycroft turned to his sister in-law. She was looking at her phone.

"Problem?"

"Yes, that new intern at the hospital has gone and royally screwed up an autopsy."

"Unsupervised intern?" Mycroft quirked an eyebrow.

"Mike assured me he'd be there."

"Mm," he picked up the teapot, refilling his cup. The café they'd met at was small and not very busy. It was private, as Mycroft preferred.

"I've got to go," she said with a heavy sigh. "I'm sorry, Mycroft, maybe we can meet tomorrow?"

"I'm afraid tomorrow is impossible," he said. He glanced at his nephew who sat in his wheelchair, watching his mother. "I can take Nicholas home, if you like, there's no reason why his afternoon out should be cut short." Nicholas was only four, and disliked being out of the house at all. Molly hesitated. "You'll be late if you bring him home, and seeing as your phone hasn't stopped buzzing since you set it in your purse, I must assume that it is an urgent problem."

"It is," she admitted, wrestling into her coat. She sighed heavily, kneeling down. "Nicholas," he was still looking at her. "I've got to run to the hospital; Uncle Mycroft will take you home, alright?" His chin wobbled a little, but he lifted his head, putting on a brave face. He looked over his mother's shoulder, at the people at the counter, all of them taking turns glancing in his direction. All of them wondering. "Don't worry about them," she said quietly. Clasping his head, she kissed him gently. "You are a brave boy," she said.

"Yes ma," he answered, and looked away from the people, to his mother's warm eyes. She had confidence in him, so he would prove her right.

"You have a key?" she asked Mycroft, who only gave her a look. "Of course you do," she said. "Alright, I'll see you tonight, Nicholas, I love you."

"See you, Ma. Love you."

The waitress approached the table, smiling at Nicholas.

"Would you like a sticky bun?" she asked. He looked at his uncle, who nodded.

"I think that's a good idea,"

"Miss, will you warm it first?" the waitress nodded, smiling as she made a mark on the menu pad.

"Right away," she looked to Mycroft "Fresh pot of tea?"

"Please." She removed the old pot, promising to be back in a few minutes.

"They're not as good as Mum's," Nicholas said after a moment, and Mycroft almost smiled.

"Few can measure up to your mother's baking."

"She puts cinnamon sugar in her's, and serves them hot."

"I like my sweets out of the oven too,"

Mycroft could humor his nephew; he was too much like Sherlock not to. The conversation was easy to carry, all the while though, he studied Nicholas. For being only four years old, he was incredibly observant. Mycroft tried to guide the conversation, trying to keep the boy's mind occupied on something other than the other people in the café.

"_- boy in wheelchair is well behaved. Wonder what his problem is." _

One look at Nicholas and Mycroft knew he'd heard the patron. His nephew stared at the empty teacup, willing away the burning sting in his eyes. The patron went on speaking in hushed tones to his friend:

"_He doesn't look special, what's he need a chair for?"_

"_Dunno. Think he's crippled, see his hands? His fingers don't bend."_

Nicholas' eyes were red now; he was looking at his hands. His fingers _didn't_ bend properly. The waitress appeared again, holding the plate bearing the sticky bun and a fresh pot of tea.

"Here we are," she smiled.

"Can we have that wrapped to go, please?" Mycroft asked, already he was standing, pulling on his coat. The waitress nodded.

"Yes of course," she fished the tab out of her apron and set it on the table before hurrying back to get a container for the bun. Laying down the appropriate amount for the bill, Mycroft unlocked the brakes on the wheelchair. Anthea was already at the door, BlackBerry in hand. "Come back soon," the waitress smiled at Nicholas, handing him the container.

"Thank you," he answered softly, but didn't meet her gaze.

Mycroft had heard Molly speaking to Sherlock about outings like this. Nicholas would hear people talking about his chair, asking them about it, about what was wrong with the boy. He'd heard Molly crying to Sherlock that she hated people who didn't know to simply shut up. Nicholas could hear every question and saw everyone turn and stare and he hated it. For the first time, Mycroft felt quite helpless. There was nothing he could do or say to make Nicholas not hear those words, or unsee all those people turning to stare at him. Nicholas saw his Uncle quiet and pensive.

"It happens a lot," he said, and Mycroft looked across the car to where Nicholas was being strapped in.

"So what can we do about it?" he asked, crossing one leg over the other. Nicholas winced, feeling the cold on his face from the open door. His muscles hurt more when it was cold out. Anthea climbed in, shutting the door quickly and directing the blowers on the ceiling over the boy's face before sitting back.

"We can't do anything about it," Nicholas answered. "I _am_ different."

"That doesn't mean there's anything wrong with you." Mycroft replied. "Your father and I are regarded as different. Do we mind when people say so?"

"People don't know right off that you stand out, besides, you've both got someone to go with you." Nicholas answered. Anthea glanced at Mycroft, fighting back a smile as she went on tapping on her BlackBerry. They were quiet for a while. "If I had a friend…" Nicholas began slowly. "To go to the shops with me, or when I go to the park, I don't think it would be hard to be brave all the time."

"A friend?" Mycroft queried. He thought of children then. Beastly, uneducated children who never understood intelligence. Nicholas was a child, but he was different. He was like Sherlock and Mycroft were when they were boys. They never had friends. Not of the human variety at any rate.

Ah-hah. Light-bulb.

They dropped Nicholas off at the house; John and Mary were home, so they brought him up to 221a to spend the rest of the day with them and Ella.

"Thanks for bringing him home," John waved and Mycroft climbed back in the car, still thinking.

"What are you on about?" Anthea asked, not looking up from her phone. Mycroft was still looking at the closed door of 221 Baker Street as they pulled away from the curb.

"Thinking," he said.

"You're going to find a friend for him?" Anthea asked.

"In a manner of speaking," he shrugged. "Find out who trains the most reliable service dogs."

"Any particular breed?" Mycroft smiled.

"Irish Setter."


	8. Sister

Nicholas couldn't ever have a brother or sister, no matter how much he wanted one. His mother explained that it was too dangerous for her to have another baby. He was upset that he couldn't have any siblings, and wasn't quite certain why.

"Why do you want a sibling anyway?" Ella asked him one day when he confessed it to her. He'd told Sayyida countless times, but the dog only looked at him. Dogs are excellent listeners, but they can't exactly offer advice in words humans can understand.

"I don't know…" he said slowly. "I guess…because I see how Uncle Mycroft and Da act, they fight all the time, but they still care, same as your Da and mine, no matter what dumb thing they get into, they're always mates, there isn't anything either could do that would make them stop caring." He frowned then. "I guess I just want to know what that feels like." Ella was quiet, contemplating. He pushed up his glasses, sighing a little, certain she didn't understand. Ella leaned back on her elbows, shrugging.

"I'll be your sister if you want." Nicholas looked up, startled.

"You…you would do that for me?" Ella smiled.

"Certainly. You've already got a best friend," she nodded to Sayyida. "I can't replace her, and I wouldn't want to try. If I can't be your best friend then I can be your sister,"

"Why?" he found himself asking.

"You need a sister, and I don't mind being yours," she answered. That was it. That was the whole of it, and Nicholas found himself smiling.

The next night John and Mary volunteered to take the children out with them to the cinema. As they entered the theater, they headed over to the wheelchair section.

"Hey, can you move your feet down off the bars please?" John asked the group of teens that had propped their feet up on the railing above the wheelchair section. Most had already done so, having seen them enter.

"Aw man, seriously?" asked one of the teens, grumbling. "Why do you have to sit on this end?" Ella, not having sat down yet, pulled herself up to full height, glaring at the offending boy.

"Because unlike you, our seating options are limited!" she snapped at them. She kept glaring at him until he put his feet down. She turned her back then, sitting down by Nicholas. John and Mary didn't bother hiding their smiles. The lights dimmed down and the adverts started playing.

"Thank you," Nicholas said quietly, and Ella returned his smile.  
"That's what big sisters are for."


	9. Dear Old Uncle Mycroft

_Mycroft being a good Uncle. Anthea watching with amusement. _

* * *

"Sir?" Mycroft turned around, a baby in his arms. Anthea did her best to stifle a giggle, which ended up with her snorting as she covered her mouth.

"Charming." He said, mouth decidedly formed into a frown.

"I'm sorry," she said, and sobered quickly. "I didn't know you had your nephew today."

"I fail to see how that amuses you."

"You and children rarely ever mix," she stepped further into the office to lay the days newspapers on his desk. "Recall the Prime Minister bringing his children to Windsor?" Mycroft made a disgruntled noise.

"My nephew is hardly comparable to those beasts." Anthea watched, quite surprised, as Mycroft Holmes tucked the corner of the blanket under the chin of his nephew, almost smiling.

"May I ask why he's here and not on Baker Street?"

"I believe I've been known to work from home on occasion, Anthea."

"Yes, but rarely with a baby in your arms."

"As it happens," he carefully turned Nicholas to face his shoulder, clean cloth draped over his well-pressed suit to prevent spit stain. "Sherlock and my sister in-law are called away with the Watson's on a case, and Mrs. Hudson is incapacitated."

"Leaving babysitting duties to sweet old Uncle Mycroft," Anthea said with a grin.

"Don't sound so condescending." The phone rang, so he crossed the room, picking up the receiver. "Yes? Yes I- hold on a moment- here," he bent slightly, nodding her over to take the boy from him.

"Sir I don't-"

"Take him or I'll drop him," Anthea was certain he never would do such a thing, but instinct had her moving to take Nicholas.

"My sources indicate quite the opposite, Prime Minister, if you would ever bother to check your messages-" he covered the receiver with his hand. "(You're holding him wrong, he'll cry-)" he turned back to the mouth-piece. "-do _not_ call my sources inefficient, let us recall who uncovered that plot against the Royal Family last year, and who introduced that wretched woman to them in the first place!"

"I don't-" Anthea began, trying to shift the child in her arms. Babies were not her forte. She was aware of the mechanics of holding one, but it was still something almost foreign to her. The baby squirmed in her arms, mouth opened, ready to bellow.

"I'm afraid I have other matters to attend to, Prime Minister, check your messages and stop fussing with trivialities." Mycroft set the receiver down just as Nicholas began to screech. Mycroft snatched him from Anthea, gently shushing him.

"What's he need?"

"My sister in-law tells me when he cries he must be kept warm, ring for the housekeeper have someone come up and start a fire." Anthea had heard something about the child's condition, something about his muscles not working properly. He had a rare disease, so rare in fact that almost nothing was known about it. The boy must be kept warm, especially as he was so small.

In a little while, Mycroft sat in the chair by the hearth, Nicholas on his lap, facing a roaring fire. Fat tears rolled down the baby's cheeks, his stiff fingers trying to bend to form fists.

"Make my excuses," he said to Anthea, who was nearby. "Put my schedule on hold until tomorrow."

"Sir?" Anthea was more than shocked. Not even his brother's wedding had made him ignore his mobile or endless meetings (he'd scheduled the wedding in-between meetings with the President of Kazakhstan and a conference with the UN).

Hours later, the baby was asleep, and Mycroft, afraid to move lest he wake him, stayed where he was. Carefully, Anthea brought a footstool, easing his feet up onto the cushion.

"Thank you," he said quietly. She returned to her place at his desk, going over filing and rearranging his schedule. In a little while, she heard a soft snore from the chair and looked up, surprised to see Mycroft's head nod, chin against his chest.

On tip-toe, Anthea crept over, quietly slipping the iPad out from his free hand. After a moment's thought, she took out her phone, snapped a picture and then scurried back to her desk, tapping out a text.

Molly saw her phone light up and went to check the messages. Sherlock heard her giggle and rolled his eyes.

"If this has anything to do with cats, Molly-"

"No, you'll want to see this one," she held the mobile out to him, showing him Anthea's text and the photo attached titled "Dear Old Uncle Mycroft". His brother was fast asleep, Nicholas curled against him. Sherlock wouldn't admit it, but he was quite pleased with his brother that night.


	10. Pain

Some nights, Nicholas couldn't sleep because his muscles ached so badly. One doesn't really think about how many muscles you have until they are all hurting. He felt the stiffness in his arms and neck, in his back and legs and in his belly and shoulders. His fingers cramped, his face ached and he could feel tears beginning to leak out the corners of his eyes. He gave a small gasp, crying softly. Sayyida heard him, sitting up from her place on the floor. She put her paws on the bed, nosing his face.

"Don't," he cried softly. "Please don't make me move," seeming to understand the pain he was in, the dog got down, hurrying out the bedroom door on swift legs.

Sherlock was fast asleep, his left arm thrown over the bare spot where Molly usually was. She'd been on call for the morgue tonight and was called in an hour ago. Suddenly, something was tugging at his shirt sleeve. Then a dog's wet nose touched his face. He grumbled, turning his head. Again the dog's nose found his cheek, Sayyida whimpered this time. Something was wrong. Sherlock opened his eyes to see the Irish Setter bound across the room, then wait in the doorway. Across the hallway he could see through the partway open door to Nicholas room. His son was curled into a ball, crying softly. Covers thrown back, Sherlock was up and out of bed, crossing the hallway in several strides.

"Nicholas,"

"Don't turn the light on," Sherlock's hand was just on the light-switch.

"What do you need? Do you want something for the pain?"

"No!" Only his mother could ever convince him when he was sobbing in agony to take a painkiller. He feared more than anything he carried the same trait as his father, that if he got a taste for numbing his pain, he might not be able to stop. Sherlock, as he had done so many times before, climbed into bed, carefully bringing Nicholas up against him. Nicholas hung onto his arms, grunting in pain.

"Sayyida didn't have to wake you."

"I would've woken up anyway."

Sherlock stayed up all night, vigilant. There was absolutely nothing he could do to ease his son's agony, they both knew that. But Nicholas still held onto his father until exhaustion won out, and he fell asleep. After that, Sherlock stayed where he was, letting his son sleep where he was, hoping his pain would be eased somewhat until morning.


	11. Goodbye May Seem Forever

Nicholas sat in the exam room, feeling sick.

"Just a tiny pick," the assistant said.

"Yes I know."

"She'll be asleep before the final dose is administered. She won't feel any pain," Sherlock promised.

"Good."

"When you're ready, just flip that switch," she pointed out which one would start the drip.

"Thank you."

"Could you leave us, please?" his father's deep voice behind him seemed to resonate in the room.

"Of course."

Sherlock watched his son blink back tears as he leaned forward, reaching for Sayyida's gray face, she was almost all white up to her ears.

"Hey old girl…" he spoke softly, trying to smile. The Irish Setter could not wag anymore, her hips too old to support her. She'd reached a fine old age of thirteen. They had all known for some time that Sayyida would not see the winter months, and waited for Nicholas to reach the decision to have her put down. The dog blinked her eyes, cloudy from age. "You've always been there for me when I needed you, so I figured it was time I returned the favor…when you needed me," he swallowed hard, sniffling. Sayyida's breathing was slower now, the heart monitor beeping at an almost languorous pace. She still watched him though, eyes still trained on him, as if asking permission. "It's okay…" he said softly, willing his voice to be strong for her. "It's okay, I've got you this time." As if sensing what he meant, the dog heaved a sigh, and shut her eyes, not fighting the anesthesia anymore.

The room was still. Sherlock took a breath.

"Would you like me to-"

"No," Nicholas interrupted; he leaned over, pushing the button that administered the Tributame. "She's my responsibility. I couldn't live with myself if I couldn't do this one thing for her." Sherlock had never felt such a mixture of pride and sorrow in his life. They waited until the heart monitor slowed to a stop, and Sayyida stopped breathing. Her eyes were dull and empty now. Leaning over the table, Nicholas reached, bringing his arms around her neck as he buried his face in her shaggy fur.

"_Thank you_, my friend."


	12. Farewell Is Like the End

"We'll see to it a new service dog is issued," Nicholas heard the woman say to his mother. Molly worried the telephone cord in her hands, glancing at him.

"Yes…well, we aren't sure yet…it's too soon, you see," trust his mother to understand how he felt. "Yes I understand she was a working dog but that hardly- no- I don't see how any dog could be 'just' a dog! I will call if we change our minds, goodbye." She hung up the phone with a touch more force than necessary.

"I don't want a new dog," Nicholas said from his room. Molly sighed heavily.

"We have to consider-"

"No." and he shut the door to his room.

Molly looked wearily to Sherlock, who only shook his head.

"It is too soon for him yet. Let him bury her first."

The ashes had been delivered the day after Sayyida was put down. Mycroft must have stepped in at some point because they arrived in a walnut box with an engraved lid.

"I want to bury her at Grandma and Grandpa's," Nicholas said. Sherlock and Molly both agreed it would be a good resting place. "And I want the Watson's to come too."

"I'll call them and see if their weekend is free."

**Lake District, Holmes Family Property**

On a hill stood an old oak tree, and in the shade of the boughs, Sherlock dug down deep until he could fit the length of his arm in the hole. There he set the box of ashes, Molly spread over it Sayyida's old blanket. Nicholas was keeping her collar. The hole was filled in again, and everyone murmured something kind to Nicholas.

"I want to stay a minute," Nicholas said, and Molly nodded, pressing his forehead.

"We'll start lunch," Mary said, and ushered John and Sherlock toward the house. Ella stayed behind.

"You don't have to stay, you know."

"I know." She fidgeted with the hem of her sweater.

In the distance they could hear birds fluttering on the breeze.

"It's hard…saying goodbye," Ella said at last. Nicholas scrubbed his face with his hands, feeling his muscles ache more keenly than before. It was too cold for him to be out, but he didn't want to go in yet. He couldn't just leave Sayyida here, all alone.

"When my cat died," Ella continued. "I didn't want to ever stop saying goodbye, because…it's like you can't let go of them. They were a part of you for so long that life without them is too painful to comprehend. Once the farewells are over, that's it." He looked at her, eyes red-rimmed.

"Yes."

"If we could just keep saying goodbye, then it's like we can delay it a little longer, that they aren't really gone yet."

"But they are," he contradicted. "They're gone forever."

"Yes," Ella said, and looked at him finally. "And that's the first step towards moving on." Nicholas looked back at the fresh turned earth; Aunt Mary had woven together cypress boughs, spreading them over the dirt. After a moment, Ella reached for his hand. "You're cold."

"Would you please take me inside?" he asked quietly. She turned his chair around, and he stretched his hand up, fingers cramped and white from the cold, reaching for her arm. Tilting his head back, he looked up through the branches of the tree to the sun shining through the leaves and sighed heavily. The ache in his chest lessened, and he blinked back tears.

It was time to move on.


	13. Faster

"Faster!"

"I daren't go faster!"

"Come on, please?!" Nicholas sat in his wheelchair, holding the armrests. Ella was pushing him along the sidewalk outside of school. If she got them going fast enough, she could hop on the foot-bar on the back and ride along with him. He had a new wheel-chair, three wheels instead of four, and balanced like a tricycle, and he could steer where he wanted to go if he so wished. This one was by far better as he could keep his legs stretched out, or propped up. Under his legs he could store their school bags, or he could prop his legs up and let her ride on the bottom. "You push like my gran, faster!" he said. Alongside them ran Nicholas' service dog, a Golden Retriever called Eleanor Rigby. At sixteen, Nicholas, and seventeen, Ella, both should have known better than to be running on school property, but technically, only Ella was running. And Eleanor Rigby was a service dog, so no one could shout at her. Getting up a proper amount of speed, Ella pushed him along, hopping on the foot-bar, giving an extra push now and again when they slowed. Nicholas laughed as the dog barked at them.

"I'm alright, Eleanor," he said as Ella slowed them to a stop. "Catch your breath," he said, "Push my legs up and sit down," gently moving his legs to the side, she sat on top of their books, a leg on either side of the front wheel, idly pushing them along.

"End of the last day of school," she said with a sigh.

"Hm."

"Are you going to the Lake District with your parents?"

"Most definitely," he said. "Grandfather put in seven new beehives; Da and I want to see how they're doing."

"You and your bees," she smiled.

"You should see if you can come for a few weeks, give your parents a rest from all your cello playing."

"Oi!" she lightly tapped his knee, smiling though.

"Please come." He said after a moment and she looked up at him.

"You wouldn't mind?" she knew how much it meant to him, getting to go to the country in the peace and quiet, to study whatever he wished with his father.

"I certainly wouldn't invite you if I did." She hummed in response.

"I've caught my breath; want to go once more across the campus before we head home?"

"Let's time it, see if we can set a record for next year."

"Sounds like a plan, Stan," she said with a grin

"Have to see to believe, Steve," he replied. She stood behind him now, starting to jog, getting up to speed.

"We'll just have to try our best, Celeste!" the trees lining the path were whizzing past.

"And if at first we don't succeed?"

"Then to hell in a hand-basket, we're bound indeed!" they shouted as she hopped on the foot-bar. Shrieking in delight, they sped faster and faster down the path, their laughter ringing in the warm summer breeze.


	14. Baking Day

"Whatcha doin' ma?"

"I'm rolling dough, do you want to help?" Nicholas pushed his walking stand over to the table. "Can you put a fistful of flour on the table for me? Perfect."

Nicholas loved to watch his mother's hands fly over the dough, rolling it out, shape it, turn it, then deft and graceful as you please, braid it before placing them on well-seasoned stoneware.

"What's this kind called?" he asked.

"Züpfe," she answered. "It's a Swiss bread," she brought the loaves over to the oven, sliding them inside in one deft movement.

"Is it like pulla?"

"Very similar, it's not a sweet though. However-" He watched with delight as she removed cellophane from another bowl in which the dough had risen to twice its size, swollen and firm in the bowl. "What do you suppose this is?" she watched as his face lit up, eyes shining behind his new glasses.

"Babka!" he cheered. "What kind?"

"I hadn't decided yet, what do you think?" she asked, and he tapped his chin, fingers cramping.

"Mmm…I think we should make chocolate, Da likes chocolate," he made excuse.

"He does," she nodded with a smile. "I know someone else who loves chocolate just as much," and he beamed.

"And we should make the other of cinnamon, for Uncle Mycroft," he said and she nodded.

"I think that's an excellent idea."

Nicholas loved days that his mother baked. He got to help her roll dough, and she let him use the biscuit-cutter on the scraps. She let him lick the bowl of chocolate for the Babka filling, and when the loaves were done, she'd cut still steaming slices off for them to enjoy, the buttery dough melting on their tongues. Then they'd collapse on the couch for a rest before tea, streaked in flour and smelling of bread.


	15. SJS

_When the Holmes' first learn about Nicholas condition, Sherlock turns to his best friend for answers._

* * *

Switching the lights on in his office, John pocketed his keys with a sigh, wheeling his bicycle over to the far wall.

"Schwartz-Jampel Syndrome," John turned with a start, seeing Sherlock sitting on the small couch, hands between his knees. John frowned.

"What is that?"

"It's what they think my son has…" Sherlock paused, chewing on the inside of his mouth. "It's what they know he has…" John took in a breath, remembering that Mary had been on the phone with Molly almost all night, trying to console the weeping pathologist. Test after test had been run on Nicholas Hamish Holmes and nobody seemed to know what the little boy's trouble was. Apparently the specialist had finally given them an answer that made sense. Sherlock took a breath. "It's why he won't stop crying, why his face never relaxes, why…" he looked at his lap. "He can't…his muscles _never_ _relax_. He'll never walk unassisted."

John couldn't speak for a moment. He recalled reading some article on SJS, but there wasn't much.

"I um…" he floundered for words. "I can do research…if you like."

"Mycroft has a team," John nodded, of course the elder Holmes would have better connections in the medical world. "But…" Sherlock paused. "Um…Molly needs…um…we need numbers. For physio…maybe I don't know."

"A physical therapist would help," John agreed. "Sherlock you're not alone, okay?" the consulting detective bowed his head, scrubbing a hand through his hair. He remained that way for a long while, taking even breaths, sniffling. John didn't dare move at first, knowing Sherlock was having difficulty dealing with these emotions. Any average human would, but Sherlock Holmes was far from average. When he didn't move, John stepped forward, squeezing his shoulder. "You're not alone; you and Molly will not go through this by yourselves."

"My son is not a fundraiser, or a pity-party," Sherlock said, having gathered himself to sit upright.

"Nope, he's not," John agreed. "He's a Holmes, but that doesn't mean that he can get by on his own, and neither are you and Molly. You're gonna need help, and from a lot of people." Sherlock nodded, eyes still red, he sniffed loudly. John dug around his pockets, handing him his kerchief.

"The help will be a give-in," Sherlock said, wiping his nose and crumpling the cloth up in his hand. "It's the never-ending looks he'll get 'Oh that poor boy', 'What's wrong with your son', 'Is he a cripple?'?"

"Those are all things you're going to hear," John said. "But that doesn't mean they're true, and that doesn't give you rights to sock anyone you want. People can be clueless, and they speak without thinking, you've got to prepare yourselves for that, and him."

"How?" Sherlock asked, and he finally met John's gaze. He was quiet for a moment, considering for a while.

"You teach him how to be like you."


	16. Unforgettable

_Unforgettable, that's what you are  
Unforgettable though near or far  
Like a song of love that clings to me  
How the thought of you does things to me  
Never before has someone been more_

Unforgettable in every way  
And forever more, that's how you'll stay  
That's why, darling, it's incredible  
That someone so unforgettable  
Thinks that I am unforgettable too  
- Nat King Cole

* * *

Nicholas heard his mother giggle, followed by his father's low voice, chuckling. He could see through the crack in the doorway his parents swaying back and forth.

"You'll wake him."

"Can't dance without music," his father said. In a moment, so soft Nicholas was straining to hear, his father had pressed play on the stereo. It was his mother's favorite song. Nicholas could see his mother smile softly, his father taking her in his arms, and holding her close, swaying back and forth. Sherlock sang quietly in Molly's ear, more speaking the words than singing, but their meaning was not lost on either of them. The words made his mother's eyes shine, and his father was smiling with his eyes.

Most children aren't really aware their parents loved each other before they loved their children. They grow up and then look back, recalling later "Oh yes, my parents loved each other." But Nicholas was absolutely sure of it, even from a young age. When his father would smile a particular smile at his mother, it was love, or when she'd bring home a particularly interesting autopsy report. A common sight in 221b was Sherlock Holmes stretched out on the sofa, deep in his mind palace with his head in Molly's lap, her fingers combing through his thick curls as she read through files. Words were important, but the comfortable silence between them spoke volumes to Nicholas. That his mother laughed when his father wired a skeleton up as a coat and hat rack, or when his father would clean the kitchen after a messy experiment without her telling him. It was acceptance of their oddness, and deep satisfaction in another person, of truly being loved for who they were and what they liked.

It pleased Nicholas, seeing his parents happy, knowing that they were constant in their affection for eachother and him as well. He fell asleep watching, as he often did, his father and mother swaying back and forth to the strains of their favorite song.


	17. Scars

_TRIGGER WARNING: This chapter contains references to cutting and illicit drug use. _

_Nicholas is probably around fifteen in this fic, just fyi. _

* * *

"What's that?" Sherlock turned from dressing to see Nicholas in the doorway of his and Molly's bedroom, bracing himself up on his walking stand.

"What's what?" His father asked.

"The marks on your arm." Nicholas hobbled over to the bench at the end of the bed, sitting down with a sigh.

"Scars," Sherlock replied finally. He settled the collar of his shirt on his neck, flicking his wrists to straighten the cuffs.

"What are they from?"

"Needles," Sherlock replied, doing up his buttons.

"Needles…for drugs?" The room was still, he watched his son from the mirror, glancing at him in-between tucking his shirt into his trousers.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I felt trapped." Sherlock turned his wrists up, buttoning his cuffs. "Getting high seemed like the only solution at the time."

Nicholas was quiet.

"You did drugs, even though you knew of the damage it was doing to you?" Sherlock studied his son very carefully, and then turned his attention back to his cuffs.

"Why do people hurt themselves, Nicholas?"

"Sometimes…" he started slowly. "They think they can't do well…or…" he looked uncomfortable.

"Or they feel trapped," Sherlock finished.

"It's wrong," Nicholas said. His father turned to him, and he looked down at his shoes.

"Yes it is," Sherlock's voice was gentle. "Which is why I don't do it anymore. I was young, and quite foolish."

"Were you younger than me?" Nicholas' voice was barely above a whisper.

"No, I was a just about your age."

"Did…" a long pause. "Did you feel better…after?"

Sherlock did not hesitate in his answer.

"Yes. The first time. After that, no…" Finally, his son looked him in the eye. "It was not an answer to problems, nor a…healthy way of dealing with them. No. I did not feel better."

"Ma says…" Nicholas fidgeted again. "She says Uncle Mycroft used to hurt himself…that he's got eight scars." Sherlock nodded.

"Two on each leg, two on each arm," he answered. "Fortunately for him, it did not take him long to realize it was not a satisfying way of dealing with his troubles, so he was able to stop." He turned, slipping into his jacket, straightening the collar. When he turned again, Nicholas was holding a small box, one that a watch or a set of cufflinks might come in. Something thin, sounding like metal, rattled around inside it as Nicholas turned the box over in his hands. Without a word, he set it on the bench.

"I didn't do anything with it." Sherlock's expression was soft, eyes almost glittering with pride and fear at the box.

"Did you want to?" After a moment, Nicholas bobbed his head in a manner his father determined was a nod. "May I ask why?" his tone was nonchalant, but his hands barely trembled as he tugged at his cuffs, minding they were straight. Nicholas shrugged after a moment, looking at his lap, then at the wall.

"Because I'm trapped."

Maintaining his calm, Sherlock crossed the room, hands behind his back.

"I sometimes feel trapped," Sherlock said after a moment. "My method of dealing with it was to shoot up, and stay high," he shrugged. "Now I solve crimes as an alternative. When I don't, I have experiments. Your Uncle John doesn't agree with them sometimes, but he understands it is far safer than the alternative, as do I." he said. "I also have your mother,"

"You can walk though," Nicholas said after a moment. "You can…do anything you want to, I can't."

"That doesn't mean this," his father tapped the box, "-is going to make it better."

"I know."

"Who would it hurt, if you did this?" a pause.

"Me?"

"Yes, you," Sherlock nodded. "There is much more than the literal scars that you would have to live with," he stood with his hands in his pockets, making no move to touch the box. "Your mother would be hurt as well." Nicholas had not thought of that. He fidgeted again, blinking hard. "There are the Watson's, your Uncle Mycroft, and the Inspector Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson,"

"Would you be sad?" Nicholas asked.

"I should be very upset if you did such a thing," Sherlock answered. "Because you are better than that, and are worthy of far better than this," he nodded to the box again.

"You said sentiment was a hindrance."

"It is," Sherlock replied with a shrug. "But you are my son, therefore…not a hindrance." He watched him reach for the box, holding it in his cramping fingers, and then finally he held it out to him.

"Will you take care of it for me?"

"I'll see to it." He tucked it into his breast pocket, resolving to throw it away as soon as possible.

"What happens if I feel like that again?"

Sherlock reached into his pocket, retrieving his mobile phone, swiping through the contacts. Taking a pen from his other breast-pocket, he scribbled on piece of scrap paper.  
"Only one other person in the world is in possession of this number," he said, handing the card to Nicholas. "That is your Uncle Mycroft's private line. If you call it, it means a car will come around to wherever you are and bring you to him or me, or whomever you wish to keep you safe." Nicholas was looking at the paper, committing the number to memory. He tucked it in his pocket for the time-being. "Whatever it is, if you decide to ring that number," his father continued. "He will always answer."

"Why does he have a number only one person knows?" Nicholas asked after a moment. Sherlock was quiet then.

"Because it was my lifeline."

* * *

_Authors Note: I can't stress this enough: if ever, ever you are thinking about harming yourself, don't hide it. Tell someone, someone you trust. a parent, a relative, a best friend, someone who can help you. You are a human being, you're alive, and that's amazing. You aren't just hurting yourself. You are worth so much more than a razor blade or a paper clip. Talk to someone. _


	18. Proud of Your Boy

Hands shaking, Molly tucked Nicholas scarf more securely around him.

"You'll smother him," Sherlock warned.

"Thanks Da," Nicholas said with a laugh, but he didn't push his mother's hands away. He didn't mind her fussing one last time.

"You're sure you don't want us to come with you?" Molly asked. "Oxford isn't very far, it would only be-" Sherlock's hand on her arm made her stop, and she offered a smile, sighing a little. "Sorry, Mother's prerogative."

"I know," Nicholas said.

"Have you got everything you need?" Sherlock asked.

"Ella says so," he nodded his head toward Ella Watson, who was handing their suitcases to the porter. She'd waited a whole year so that they could go to college together, that way Nicholas wouldn't be alone. She'd spent the past four years working in Speedy's café, helping to save up for her tuitions. Nicholas got in on a scholarship (he'd inherited his grandmother's penchant for numbers). Eleanor Rigby, his service dog, was leashed to his chair; she waited patiently, minding the crowds didn't crush around them.

"You'll remember to call if you need money, or if you forgot anything," Molly said, voice trembling.

"I will, Ma."

"Honestly, Molly he'll be back for winter holidays in a few months," Sherlock said, though he was blinking a touch more than usual, and Nicholas could see his eyes were somewhat red.

"I'll call as soon as I get there," Nicholas promised.

"And if he doesn't, I'll remind him," Ella said.

"You behave," John said. "Look after each other, both of you," Ella went to her father, pulling him into a tight embrace.

"We will," she said, and pressed his cheek. "We'll be careful, I love you,"

"Love you too," he murmured gruffly and stepped aside. Mary grabbed her daughter in a tight squeeze.

"You already know what I told you," she said softly. "You remember who you are,"

"Don't make me call up Sigurd and have him lecture you again," Molly threatened and both Ella and Nicholas visibly stiffened (which for Nicholas was no simple thing). They had already been lectured at length by Sigurd Holmes; indeed he'd quoted the whole of Lord Polonius' speech at the celebratory dinner the previous night. Twice.

"I will," Ella promised and kissed her mother.

Molly bent, kissing Nicholas' cheek.

"We're proud of you," she murmured. "We are so proud of you." He hugged her back as best he could, his joints stiff. It was too cold outside, and he was painfully aware of it. She stepped back, and then glancing at Sherlock, nodded, understanding he wanted a moment alone with his son. She turned to Ella to say her goodbyes, drawing them a few paces from Nicholas and Sherlock.

"You're sure you're alright?" Sherlock asked, once they were a little ways away.

"No, but I'll never know unless I don't try," he answered. Sherlock smiled.

"That's my boy."

"I'm not four,"

"No, you're not. You're a grown man, so no excuses, don't make stupid choices, think before you act,"

"Da…" Nicholas rolled his eyes.

"I'm supposed to say all that," Sherlock said. "Don't see why I have to, you know better,"

"Within reason," Nicholas said and his father nodded, agreeing.

"Point is...I'm very…proud of you, I won't say I would never change you, because your being in a chair and in pain, that's no credit to you, but I will say that you've made terrific progress in your life, and if you use what skills you _do_ have," he tapped his son's forehead then. "I think that there is very little to hold you back from succeeding." He paused then. The Holmes thing to do at this point would be to shake hands. Before he could even stick his hand out, Nicholas was bracing himself up, planting his feet on the ground. On wobbly legs, wincing as his muscles protested, he managed to get to his feet, holding onto his father's forearms for balance.

"Least I could do is thank you like a man," Nicholas said. Agony clear on his face, he held out his hand. Still astounded, Sherlock grasped his hand, and then pulled him close, hugging him outright.

"You are my son," he murmured. "and I am proud of you."

"Love you, Da." There was a pause.

"I love you too."

Ella came to stand behind the chair, keeping it steady as Sherlock helped Nicholas sit down again. The porter came then

"We'll let you board first, sir, so that you can be situated before the crowd,"

"Thank you," he and Ella both answered.

"If you'll allow me, Miss," the porter reached for the handles of the wheel chair and Ella stepped aside, holding Eleanor Rigby's leash. Backing into the carraige, the porter hitched the chair up over the gap, and Nicholas smiled at the small group. Ella followed close behind.

Molly came to stand beside Sherlock, lacing her fingers in his.

"They'll be fine," he said automatically.

"It's hard," she sniffled a little, still attempting to put on a brave face. "He's needed us for so long…"

"Least he's got her," he replied and she squeezed his hand. Sherlock smiled down at her. Nicholas and Ella were waving from their seats as the doors closed and the bell down the line rang. John and Mary waved goodbye, beaming with pride. The train pulled away, leaving them alone on the platform. The crowd began to disperse, moving around the four of them.

"Cripes," John heaved a sigh. "Anyone want a drink?"

"Yes." The other three replied. Arm still around John's waist, Mary reached, linking her free arm with Molly's. Her other was still tucked in Sherlock's. Four abreast, they headed out of the station, more nervous, they were sure than their children.

On the train bound for Oxford, Ella stretched her legs out over Nicholas' lap, sighing with delight.

"Free at last!" she giggled gleefully. He patted the tops of her feet, staring out the window. Her smile relaxed somewhat. "Nervous?" he didn't look at her, but he nodded. She nudged him a little with her foot. "Me too." He turned to her then, his face contorted as it always was, but she could tell when he was really smiling, and this time he was.

"Bet you they're more scared," he said, referring to their parents. "I'm glad you're here with me though."

"Me too."


	19. Stairs

"_You_ are just like your father," John Watson held onto Nicholas, squeezing a touch more than necessary. "Doing the stupidest possible thing, regardless of the harm it does to you."

"Told you I'd get up the stairs one day myself."

"You did," John nodded. They sat on the landing just outside of 221b, the teenager in the arms of the man who was as good as blood relation to him. Eleanor Rigby, Nicholas' service dog lay panting at their feet, watching them. John had just been leaving 221a when he found Nicholas halfway up the stairs, tears rolling down his face as he struggled to bend his knees, the dog whining piteously, licking his face for encouragement. The mechanized chair installed so Nicholas could get up and down the stairs remained at the other end of the stairway. His wheel chair was left at the door. John had come barreling down the stairs, only to be ordered not to help.

"Don't you touch me," he said fiercely. "I can do it myself, I _will_ do it myself." He then ordered Doctor Watson to go to the top of the stairs.

It took almost eight minutes for Nicholas to climb the remaining seven steps. Once at the landing, he collapsed in a heap and John reached for him, helping him sit up.

"Hurts," Nicholas gasped. "But I don't care." He looked over at John, still catching his breath. "Don't tell Ma or Da." After a moment, John reached for the switch, bringing the chair up to the landing.

"I won't." some things were best left alone. John understood the need to do something yourself, in spite of injury. It was a matter of pride, and while John disliked the idea of pride to the point of pain, he was also a soldier, and he understood all too well how Nicholas felt.


	20. Brave Boys Deserve Ice Cream

_Who doesn't love Mothering Mary? :) _

* * *

"Oh my goodness!" Mary heard Nicholas fall in the other room. She wasn't a worrier. She always waited to hear for the unmistakable cry that meant 'I'm hurt, badly' before running to inspect when it came to Ella. Ella was very much her mother and father, all Watson, all rough-and-tumble and only cried if she was bleeding, if then.

"Mummy!" Ella shouted and Mary came running.

All of three, Nicholas rubbed his head, fat tears welling in his eyes and his contorted face pulled uncomfortably as he began to cry.

"Oh that was a terrible fall little one, come here," she soothed as she lifted him.

"He tripped over Gladstone and he hit his head on the corner of the table, it wasn't anyone's fault," Ella informed her.

"Hurts," Nicholas sobbed, his hand holding his head.

"I know it does," Mary kissed the spot.

"Kisses don't work!" Nicholas cried harder. Mary would have laughed at that if he wasn't crying. It was Sherlock all over, disproving a mothering tactic to help children stop crying.

"Not true," she contradicted. "Mummy kisses always make it better, but I'm not your mummy, so mine don't work as well as yours would." Nicholas sniffled, rubbing his eyes. "Mind your glasses," she tugged them off his face. "Ell, will you clean those off for me please?" the four year old ran off obediently to her task. "You mustn't cry so much, you'll give yourself a headache, and then what will we do? Your mummy and daddy won't let you play here anymore." Nicholas held onto her, not liking the sound of that. He swallowed his tears, wiping his eyes. Scrubbing his back gently, Mary kissed him once more. "There's a brave boy."

John came thumping up the stairs.

"Who fell?"

"Nicholas did,"

"I'm brave," he announced, despite his red eyes.

"Brave boys deserve treats," Mary decided. She'd been looking out the window. "What do you suppose that is, coming down the street?" Ella and Nicholas strained to hear.

"Ice cream truck!" Ella shrieked with glee and Nicholas, though still in pain, clapped his hands merrily.

"Okay, okay," John laughed. Mary handed Nicholas over to him and got her purse, handing him the money.

"You hold onto that, and Uncle John will tell the man what you want."

"Come on," John hitched him up on his hip, taking Ella's hand with his other. "Brave boys and girls deserve ice cream."


	21. Bedtime Stories

_Text in italics is from Roald Dahl's 'James and the Giant Peach', which is a splendid book and you should read it, I don't care how old you are. _

* * *

"Are you sure you don't want to hear about 'Jack the Ripper Comes Back', or the 'Case of the Missing Fingernails'?"

"Not tonight," Nicholas voice was soft. His son's manner made Sherlock pause in rifling through hardcopies of cases.

"Did something happen today?" the boy all of five, shifted uncomfortably in bed.

"I just want to hear something nice tonight." Sherlock was about to reply that 'Jack the Ripper Comes Back' was almost exactly like 'The Cat in the Hat Comes Back' except without the rhyming, and a little more gore, but instead he nodded.

"Very well," he shelved the cases and went to the bookcase by Nicholas bed. 'Something nice' usually meant for children. "What will it be?" one look at his son and Sherlock knew. With a smile and a nod, he selected a well-worn volume from the shelf and opened it. "Bunch up," he said, and Nicholas scooted over. Very carefully, Sherlock crawled up onto the bed and ever so gently placed his son between his legs so they could both read. "James and the Giant Peach," Sherlock began. "By Roald Dahl…"

**Hours Later…**

With a yawn and sigh, Molly shut the door behind her. She hated being on call this time of year. The weather was already depressing enough. Finding no sign of her husband or son (who should have been asleep at this hour) she shuffled into her slippers, looking around. From Nicholas' room, she could hear her husband's voice, and the light was still on. On tip-toe, she crept closer to investigate.

There on Nicholas bed, Sherlock was sprawled out, Nicholas curled between his legs, his face contorted in pain, though his eyes were heavy with sleep as his father read:

_"Every day of the week, hundreds and hundreds of children from far and near came pouring into the City to see the marvelous peach stone in the Park. And James Henry Trotter, who once, if you remember, had been the saddest and loneliest boy that you could find, now had all the friends and playmates in the world. And because so many of them were always begging him to tell and tell again the stories of his adventures on the peach, he thought it would be nice if one day he sat down and wrote it as a book. So he did. And that is what you have just finished reading. The End."_

Sherlock looked over their son's head, nodding to her.

"Now it's time for bed," he kissed his head and carefully shifted so that Nicholas was laying flat. "You have a handkerchief under your pillow?"

"Yes."

"Sleep tight."

"Da?"

"Hm?"

"Are you happier now than before. . . when it was just you?" Sherlock bent, pressing a gentle kiss to Nicholas' forehead.

"Infinitely happier, now go to sleep."

"Night Da," he saw Molly in the doorway and waved his small hand. "Goodnight ma."

"Goodnight, love," a kiss from both parents, the nightlight switched on, Nicholas turned on his side and drifted off to sleep, his dreams full of giant peaches and centipedes, ladybugs and grasshoppers, and the thought that one day he might be lucky enough to have a friend.


	22. The Unspoken Tale of Sherlock Holmes

_Some stories might not make the blog, but they'll always be shared among the family. _

* * *

"Let's hear about the time you and Da were handcuffed and had to run across London!"

"Oh boo, we always hear that one! I want the one where Mummy threw flower pots at Uncle Mycroft!"

"No! Where Da threw the bad man onto Nanny Hudson's bins!"

"Okay, okay, okay," John said. "How about this," he shifted, lifting Ella onto one knee, and very carefully, settled Nicholas on the couch beside him, his feet propped onto John's knee. "I'll tell you one you haven't heard, about when Sherlock had to wear a dress."

"_What?!" _Both Nicholas and Ella's wild guffawing was cut off by someone galloping up the steps three at a time.

_*thumpthumpthumpTHUMPthumpTHUMP*_

The door burst open and Sherlock stood there in his dressing gown, frowning and out of breath.

"I told you, never again!"

"Oh come on- how did- you're supposed to be getting ready for your date with Molly!"

"I am…but I also hid a baby monitor in here on the off-chance you started sharing unsavory stories-"

"Out!" Mary was already pushing Sherlock out the door, Ella and Nicholas burst out laughing despite the Consulting Detective's protests. "Go woo your wife, I don't want to hear a peep out of you until late tomorrow afternoon!"

"Not that late…" John started, Mary gave him a look. "Late enough to have a good time I suppose-"

"Goodnight Sherlock," Mary shut the door. "Now," she said, a mischievious twinkle in her eye. "What's this about Sherlock wearing a dress?"

"It was for a case!" Sherlock bellowed through the door. "And it was _not_ a dress, they were Turkish robes!"

"Everyone _thought_ it was a dress, including the bad men we were trying to catch. Sherlock makes for a very pretty lady, the cheekbones and curls, you know-" John went on, Mary collapsing in a fit of laughter.


	23. The Woman

_This was supposed to be Nicholas getting lost in a shopping mall and then suddenly The Woman appeared. Oops. _

* * *

With a whimper and a sniffle, Nicholas held onto Sayyida's leash. At least he wasn't completely alone. Panting, the dog leaned against him, licking his cheek comfortingly. Nicholas tried to smile, stroking her fur. He wasn't sure how he'd been separated from his mother, there had been such a crowd around them and suddenly the store was empty.

"We'll be okay, we need to find a camera," he said. If he could find a camera, he'd find Uncle Mycroft. His Uncle would send Anthea or Uncle Greg. He reached down, grunting in pain to try and reach the locks on his chair to unlock the wheels.

"Hello," he looked up at the sound of a woman's voice. A lithe woman with beautiful eyes and dark hair was smiling at him. Her nail varnish was the same shade of red as her lips. She looked posh, and something not quite right twisted in Nicholas gut as he studied her. 'Danger' flashed through his mind, and not only because he didn't know her. "What a lovely pet you have," he tightened his grip on Sayyida's leash, and the woman laughed. "I won't steal her, dear, I promise. Would you like me to buy you a sweet?"

"No thank you, my mother is coming right back."

"Your mother is detained, I saw to that, don't worry, she's quite safe," The Woman reassured him. "Do you know who I am?"

"No." the woman blinked in surprised.

"No? Your Daddy's never mentioned me?" he studied her, searching through all the people his parents talked about, all the pictures in their computers and cases.

"Should he have?" he asked.

"I used to spend some time with your father," she smiled in a way that Nicholas was sure he didn't like. It was as if she wasn't used to children, but was trying to be extra nice to him because she needed something. "You look so much like him," she murmured, studying him. Nicholas wished his face didn't hurt so much. He wished the muscles in his face didn't render his expressions useless. He wanted very much to glare at this woman.

"My father is married now, and he loves my mother very much," a pause. "Miss Adler." She lifted her eyebrows.

"Well! So he did mention me!"

"No, I read it on Uncle John's blog."

"What if I asked you to give your father a message for me-" she took a step forward, and Sayyida bared her teeth. On all fours she put herself between The Woman and Nicholas, hair standing up on her neck. Irene Adler stopped where she was.

"She doesn't like strangers," Nicholas said, his voice was soft. "I'm not fond of them either, it makes me nervous, and it makes my legs hurt more,"

"I'll be brief," The Woman promised. "Tell your father that an old friend needs to speak with him, it's regarding a case, tell him it'll be fun," she beamed at him. "Will you do that for me?"

"Why should I do anything for you?" he asked.

"You don't have to," she shrugged. "Of course you don't, but it'd go much better for everyone if you did." She looked at her watch. "My times up," she smiled. "Do tell your Uncle John I said hello, and salutations on his happy nuptials to a master assassin." In a moment she was gone, and his mother was sprinting headlong down the empty hallway, sliding to a stop on her knees, cradling him in her arms. He held onto her, patting her back and her head.

"You're alright? You're not hurt? What happened? Did someone touch you?!"

"Sayyida looked after me," Nicholas said, finding he was short of breath. "Ma…Ma it hurts to breath,"

"Even breaths, lovey, even breaths, remember how we showed you in…and out…"

"Ma…it was that woman," he said in-between breaths. "It was that woman…"

"What woman?"

"Irene Adler."

Uncle Mycroft's car was waiting for them outside the building.

"What happened?" he looked absolutely monstrous.

"I don't know, there was a crowd, it was to get me away so he was alone, Mycroft, we need Sherlock, now," Mycroft must have called in the police because Lestrade's car pulled up behind them.

"Lestrade, will you see Nicholas home, please?"

"What, no, no I should-" Molly began to protest.

"I'm okay," Nicholas promised. "Go with Uncle Mycroft, go find Da." There was a long pause.

"He'll be in the labs at St. Barts today," she said finally. "We were supposed to pick him up."

"Detective Inspector, if you would be good enough to take Nicholas home," Mycroft said. "Don't leave him unless Mary Watson is there to look after him."

"Should I stay with him anyway or-"

"I believe Mrs. Watson is quite capable of keeping Nicholas safe," the elder Holmes reassured the inspector. "Are you comfortable with this?" he asked his sister in-law and Molly nodded. She bent, kissing Nicholas.

"Be a good boy, I'll call you in thirty minutes, alright? Do what Aunt Mary says,"

"Is Da going to be okay?" Molly smiled, though it didn't reach her eyes.

"Of course he will be. Now be a good boy."

**Hours Later…**

"You said no?" Molly asked, quite surprised. Sherlock tugged off his scarf, hanging it on the wired skeleton before taking her coat.

"Of course I did."

"Why?"

"Because The Woman is not to be trusted," Sherlock replied. "Her people didn't hurt you did they?"  
"No," he pulled her close, pressing her cheek before resting his forehead against hers.

"Nicholas, he's alright?"

"He was frightened, but Sayyida looked after him."

"Where is he now?"

"Upstairs with Mary and Ella."

"It was clever of you to have Greg see him home."

"Mycroft's idea," she answered. "Sherlock, where is she going? Why did she come after Nicholas?"

"She is being sent to Cuba I think. Somewhere out of reach of whoever is chasing her. Mycroft is seeing to it. She wanted to speak to me, some…case," he waved his hand.

"Was it a good case?"

"I don't know, I was given a file but I threw it out of Mycroft's car as we were driving over London Bridge." He held her close then. "I won't risk you or Nicholas. There was a time I might have taken her up on her offer," he shook his head. "But not now. Not ever again. There is too much at stake. I will keep you and Nicholas safe, regardless of the case." Tears in her eyes, she kissed him, finding she had no words. When at last they parted, she found her stutter had annoyingly returned.

"We um…w-we should go fetch Nicholas-"

"Later," he said and kissed her again, bringing her down the hall.


	24. Safe is Alive

_Sherlock comes home rather battered from a case. Nicholas helps his mother patch him up. _

* * *

"You stupid, ridiculous, irresponsible, idiotic, stupid-"

"You said stupid-"

"I _know_ what I said!" Molly snapped, choking back a sob before she pulled Sherlock into her arms, hugging him. "You're not stupid," she cried softly. "You brilliant, silly, _silly_ man, I thought- all I heard was that you'd jumped from somewhere and-"

"I'm alright," Sherlock's voice was rough, laced with pain as he held onto her, soothing circles into her back. "Case is over. Body broke my fall. John's alright too, he was clever. He didn't jump."

Nicholas watched from his doorway as his mother kissed each and every cut and scrape on his father's face, pushing back his shaggy curls to inspect if he was hurt anywhere else. Sniffling, she tugged him by the hand, sitting him down at the table. Quietly, Nicholas grasped the handles of his walking stand, and hobbled out to the kitchen.

"Nicholas!" Molly turned with a start. She wiped her eyes, turning away briefly. "I'm sorry, love," she turned back and kissed him. "I'm sorry if I woke you."

"Is Da alright?"

"Fine," Sherlock groused, wincing as he shifted in his seat. "No worse than usual."

"A few cracked ribs, I'd wager," that was his mother's business voice. The tears had been shed, the scolding delivered, now it was time to fix what needed mending. "Stitches for this," she probed his temple. Sherlock pulled a face.

"You _like_ scars,"

"I like you _safe_,"

"Safe isn't exciting,"

"But it keeps you alive," Nicholas countered. Molly looked up from her kit, looking from her husband to her son. Sherlock tipped his head up, looking at his son through half-lidded eyes as Molly began to wipe off his face.

"Quite right," he answered finally.

"Nicholas will you be a good boy and hand me things as I ask for them?" his mother asked softly. "It's much easier with two people."

Hobbling over to the sink, he washed his hands and Sherlock quirked a smile at Molly before looking back at the wall.

"Ready," Nicholas answered.

"Good, iodine?"

"Iodine," he replied. Together, they patched up the World's Only Consulting Detective, much to father and son's great pleasure.


	25. It Ends with Love

_This is how it ends. Yep. I was going to write another chapter about Nicholas dying, but that- no. I can't do it. Sorry. Maybe I will eventually but I'd rather leave it on a positive note. It's hinted at that he's dying, he doesn't have much time left. I want to leave him and everyone else somewhat happy, despite what they know is coming. It's a bittersweet ending, but one that ends with love, no doubt about it. Thank you, lovelies for following, favoriting, reading, reviewing, responding, you have been AMAZING. _

* * *

"Nervous?" his mother smiled at him and Nicholas shrugged.

"You'll stab him with the pin if you're not careful," his father warned her.

"Shush, mother's right to fuss," Molly sighed, delighted. She straightened the boutonnière on Nicholas coat once more. "Very handsome,"

"Molly," John poked his head in the door. "Mary and Ella need you, come help, lady crisis," Nicholas fidgeted. "With the dress, I promise, stuck zipper or something, I don't know-" they could hear Ella shrieking for help, caught between laughter and panic.

"Coming," Molly called ahead of her, kissed Nicholas and scampered out the door and up the stairs.

"I'd better go check and make sure everything is set out back," John said and hurried off. Sherlock fiddled with his cuff-links, then turned to the mirror, scowling at his tie.

"Third time in my life I've had to wear a tie," he said conversationally. "Still hate it mind,"

"Da?"

"Hm," his father was pulling at the tie, frowning at it. "Do you think…do you think I'll make her happy?" Sherlock looked at his son. "I mean…I know…I know what the doctor's said…about…what time I have left and everything but…I don't want her to be unhappy with me, short a time as it is."

"I think you will continue to do as you've always done," Sherlock replied. "You've always made her laugh; you've always comforted her and looked after her, same as she's done for you. I think you'll keep making her happy."

"She's not…she's not marrying me because she feels sorry for me." Sherlock was quiet.

"No she absolutely is not, you can trust that. She's a Watson, she keeps her word."

"She'll be a Holmes," Nicholas smiled in his own way. "Ma can have the daughter she always wanted." He sniffled. Sherlock reached for his son, gently squeezing the back of his neck before he bent and kissed his forehead.

"You have made your mother and I very proud, remember that, you've accomplished much more than anyone hoped, and have come much further than simply this," he tapped the arm of the chair. "No more tears, today is your wedding, I'm afraid I will actually have to put my foot down." Nicholas laughed, wiping his eyes before replacing his glasses. "At least on our part, your mother is quite the exception."

"And Aunt Mary."

"I'd wager your Uncle John may break first." He unlocked the brakes on Nicholas' chair, wheeling him out of Mycroft's office and to the veranda. Out on the lawn was a white tent, guests were milling about, waiting for the ceremony to start.


End file.
